Panties
by Lyaksandra
Summary: Someone has been stealing pieces of clothing from Cameron's room. The culprit is of course a person she did not expect, but the reasons are even further beyond her comprehension. Two parts, Cameron POV, Rated M for second chapter.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I inspect the drawer that contains my underwear, scan and count every piece of clothing, and compare it to my memories. Then, I double-check the contents of my underwear drawer. Afterward, I triple check it. They are not here. My orange cotton panties with white polka dots.

They are not the pair I am currently wearing, of that much I am one hundred percent certain about. Although, if there are glitches occurring inside my central processing unit, this estimation might in fact be incorrect. I run a quick scan of my neural network.

Nothing. The scan finds nothing at all that indicates any issue, either currently or even in risk of potentially developing in the near future. Nevertheless, given all past events I have committed to memory thus far, I decide to introduce statistical data into my estimation. I now find myself only ninety-nine percent certain that I am not in fact wearing my orange cotton panties with white polka dots.

Even a one percent margin of error is too much under the current circumstances. My panties began disappearing twenty-three days ago, and so far the situation has displayed a nearly daily incidence. There can be no margin of error. Therefore, I insert my thumbs between my lower abdomen and the hem of the jeans, and draw it away from my body until my underwear becomes visible. Predictably, I am actually wearing my plain yellow cotton panties.

What confuses me most, is not that my underwear is being recurrently stolen, but the fact that after every pair of panties has disappeared, it then reappears. Even worse, this usually happens during the same day, and every stolen pair is returned unchanged into the same spot it was before being illicitly retrieved.

At first, I arbitrarily assigned a period of ten days to monitor the situation. The issue seemed to happen rarely, with no discernible pattern, and was harmless, so in the end, I chose to ignore it. I attributed my missing underwear to mishaps in the logistics of the laundry. When it kept happening, I decided to closely oversee the laundering process for another period of ten days. This confirmed that neither Sarah Connor nor John Connor had suddenly become inept, but the answer to the mystery of my missing panties still eluded me. Therefore, I assigned ten more days to the investigation, during which I relieved everyone else from laundry duty and took it upon myself to do all the laundry during the night. Since I do not sleep, I deemed that such an alteration of my schedule would not detract significantly from our security, since it only curtails the time I have allotted for standing guard in my room. Besides, given our current circumstances, it is unlikely that there are any attacks forthcoming.

The situation has so far remained unchanged. I am now in the fourth ten day period, in which I have decided to actively investigate these peculiar burglaries. At this point I am willing to abandon all my preconceptions, and decide to include the other members of the household in my list of suspects. After all, access to my room is readily available to any of them.

I create a priority list of suspects, and Sarah Connor being the only other panty-wearing person in the house, comes at the top of it. Perhaps she is suffering a shortage of underwear and has taken to acquire it from my drawer instead of buying some from the store. After calculating the possibilities of this actually being the case, it turns out that this is in fact a very unlikely scenario. Even so, since I have already invested more than thirty days into this investigation and still have nothing to show for it, I decide to look at every angle. That is one of my strongest points, I can be thorough like no one else.

Opening one door of my closet reveals a full body mirror that is attached to it. Without much preamble, I make preparations to focus in the pertinent areas of interest. I promptly remove my boots, and then slip out of the blue jeans I am wearing, leaving them to rest in a heap beside my feet. Sarah Connor is very severe when it comes to skin exposure inside the house, especially if I am the one exposing it, so I always make sure my body is not overly unclothed. Since my pastel-blue top with cap sleeves does cover nearly half of my panties, I believe I am sufficiently clothed to allow free transit within the building.

First, I examine my legs, and already I can see that my panties would be an ill fit for Sarah Connor, not to mention the difficulties she would face by merely attempting to put them on. Although her legs are quite thin and shapely in comparison to the average of her peer group, she is already a fully grown female, whereas I have the appearance of a seventeen year old teenager. My legs have an aesthetically pleasing shape with well-defined curves, but they are lean, and in fact relatively thin. As far as my past observations indicate, the measurements of this body are below the average constitution range of my peer group.

This is to be expected, as I was modeled after a female human teenager who had been surviving in a world that had remarkably sub-optimal living conditions. I resemble her in every way, and appearing to be underfed is no exception. Seeing the diametrical difference between this timeline and the one I originated from, has brought me to the conclusion that Skynet designed my infiltration sheath with the intent to exploit the protective instincts of humans, not their sexual ones. Unless my design had been meant to appeal to certain niche groups within the population, because humans in important military positions are almost always well beyond my apparent age. Unlikely, since Skynet prefers a more broad, utilitarian, and efficient approach.

Once done scanning my legs, I proceed to scan my hips and waist. Nothing unexpected here, either. The relative difference in size between both is rather small, but by no means does my body go unnoticed by the eyes of human males, in particular those of my peer group. Still, I do not present the most attractive waist to hip ratio out there. If a female of better proportions walks by at the same time I do, this usually results in all male gazes—and the occasional female—being redirected toward her.

These deliberations tell me that it is impossible for Sarah Connor to fit into my panties, as she is a fully developed female with hips that have already borne a child. Seeing no other reason for her repeatedly pillaging my belongings, but to disturb me in an attempt to aggravate me, I decide to undertake a thorough search of her living quarters. Since both Sarah and John Connor are currently occupied ingesting breakfast downstairs, I leave my room dressed as I am.

In recent weeks, Sarah Connor has become determined to expand her breakfast menu, going from pancakes to different combinations that include eggs, ham, bacon, and other ingredients that she has arbitrarily classified as related. This immediately became a resounding success with John. Although, I must clarify that bacon has the potential of being successful with nearly every manner of creature that ingests it, be it natural or artificial. I came to that conclusion just recently, when upon sampling one of the meaty and greasy strips, I found it quite pleasant to my palate. I wonder if Sarah is comfortable enough with my presence nowadays, that she would invite me to have breakfast with them if I asked.

To ensure that my unauthorized entry into Sarah Connor's room goes unnoticed, I perform several auditory and visual scans of my surroundings. Once I am sure that she and John appear to be far from done with their meal, I turn the knob and push the door. It readily yields under my hand, and for the first time, I find myself crossing the threshold that leads into Sarah's private dwelling.

Despite the contempt she readily displays when dealing with any kind of computer, Sarah Connor shares many characteristics with us. Her room is very tidy, and is practically Spartan. The level of organization is nearly on par with that of my own room, and that is saying something. Furthermore, she has the ability to pursue a goal with relentless abandon and single minded focus, just like me. Although, I do lack the drive her fury and passion can provide. For that reason, I admit that if Sarah Connor were to become as physically strong as me, she would be more dangerous than any known Terminator model that has been deployed.

Once done with my initial assessment of the room, I proceed to examine the contents of every drawer without delay. I find nothing there, so I move on to other possible hiding places—under the bed and under the mattress, behind and under the chests, inside the ventilation shaft, I even inspect the floor for any loose boards that might conceal something underneath. Nothing. My orange cotton panties with white polka dots are not here.

For a moment, I consider performing a second search, when suddenly my ears pick up a series of noises. I immediately identify them as the sounds of plates clattering in the kitchen sink. Without fail, I take this as a signal of my rummaging time having run out, and swiftly remove myself from the room in order to avoid detection. After silently closing the door, I start walking straight back to my room, and on the way notice that John Connor has not come upstairs. Good, that means the possibility of someone witnessing my encroaching into his mother's room is nonexistent.

I traverse the corridor at a brisk pace, and without slowing down enter my room and return to the full body mirror in my closet. It is time to consider the second priority in my list of possible underwear thieves, John Connor. There can only be one motivation as to why he would steal intimate clothing from my drawers and that is sexual attraction, so I proceed to shed the remainder of my clothes. Fully exposed, my body free of any barrier that might obscure my sight, I begin a thorough scrutiny of my outer appearance.

Albeit resembling a malnourished, and thus quite thin girl from the year two thousand twenty seven, the proportions of my body do present a well-balanced ratio. I cup my left breast and squeeze it to test its texture. Even though my chest is small, it balances the appearance of the rest of my body well. As far as I can tell, the consistency is virtually indistinguishable from human breasts.

After inspecting my chest, I proceed to run the tips of my fingers all over my body to feel the different textures of my skin. I bend forward and start with my feet, then move up tracing the line of my shins, and before moving to my thighs, I go around my calves. After inspecting the texture of the skin covering my upper leg and my buttocks, I proceed to also verify the consistency of the latter. Squeezing my buns yields the same result as my chest, they too are virtually indistinguishable from human buttocks.

Some of my reference material may in fact be unreliable, considering the sources I obtained it from. Chiefly, television shows and magazines aimed at females of different ages that seek to understand the male psyche. Although the remainder of my reference material comes directly from my stock programming, Skynet has a clinical and logical approach to these matters. Given how often humans fail to abide by logic, I find this source to potentially be just as unreliable. It matters not, I must work with what I have, and uncover the culprit behind my missing underwear.

Before proceeding to test my genital area, I boost my hearing to verify if the others remain in the kitchen, or at least downstairs. Once I am satisfied that such is the case, I slide my right hand between my thighs. I am indeed anatomically correct and perfectly capable of performing sexual intercourse, my genitals should even be able to pass meticulous visual and tactile scrutiny. No surprise there. I even test the sensibility ranges of the different areas, and find everything to be correctly mapped according to the extensive anatomical knowledge I possess.

Then, I examine the rest of my body—arms, shoulders, neck, the areas of my back that the range of my arm joints permit—and find no issue whatsoever. I have beautiful, unblemished skin. Not like I expected to find any problems, but I have always thought that double-checking my facts is not an overindulgence. Especially considering that I never performed an in-depth inspection of my outer physical characteristics since being built.

To facilitate the assessment of my face, I move closer to the mirror and adjust my sight accordingly. My face exhibits a moderately uncommon composition, that even when not perceived as attractive, can at least be perceived as charming, endearing, or as having something about it. That is something I do not understand, but have overheard humans occasionally express as I walk by. Each feature of my face appears to properly complement the others and the whole. I have a well-balanced and proportioned face as far as the data I have allows me to judge.

I slowly turn my head from side to side and apply slight pressure to my lips with my index finger as I run it along them, which serves to simultaneously feed me information about the skin texture, consistency, and shape of my mouth. They are soft, smooth, and also have an appearance favored by a considerable number of humans seeking to perform osculation with a female. Going into deeper structural detail, I observe that my lips are slightly puckered, which gives them the appearance of a natural pout, a characteristic that has a high probability of making my mouth more appealing.

Moving up, I turn my attention to my nose, a feature of the face whose importance is often overlooked by the untrained mind. A nose can bring balance to the whole face, or just as well make it a complete chaos, it can literally make or break the deal. At least that is how the magazines puts it. Although, my observations do indicate that the nose is a considerably relevant factor in the composition of the face. Mine is slightly turned up—not enough for people to easily draw a comparison with a pig's snout—and it has a slim bridge with a gentle curve. A combination of characteristics that can potentially allow me to alter my perceived age if I do my make-up in a certain way.

My lips and nose are rather small, but have a shape that balances them well. Both could be perceived as cute, or beautiful, or even exquisite. There is a problem with all my assumptions, though. Most humans are unable to see things within context or at least tend not do it. Given the inherent abstract workings of the brain, it focuses on certain aspects of the images their eyes see, usually not on the whole. They often cannot see the forest for the trees, as the saying goes. There have been times when I have overheard humans making negative observations about specific characteristics of my face and body.

After my nose, I consider my eyes. The almond shape should grant them a peculiar attractive, and the opening range of my eyelids allows for plenty of light to reach my irises. This emphasizes them, makes them more visible, and gives them a healthy sheen. It is perhaps in this feature—the way my eyes capture and reflect light—that lies one of Skynet's greatest achievements. My eyes appear to be alive, to give off that sparkle of intelligence and vivacity that humans so often make reference to. It is also this greatest of achievements that long ago became the reason of my downfall.

Three days after John Connor identified me as a Terminator unit in the future—once he was certain that my reprogramming had been successful—he disclosed to me how he was able to see through my deception. He said that my eyes were too alive. That humans had lost that sparkle long ago, their eyes dulled by the deep loss and sorrow they carried. Their eyes were less alive. Then, fourteen days later, he brought me to his private quarters and recounted other observations he had made in relation to that subject. He had seen my eyes become dull on occasion, much like humans, probably when I was under duress. Since this was such an infrequent and seemingly random occurrence, he concluded that I must have been quite the jolly character, someone who was almost never affected by the circumstances around her. Here in the past, though, I should fit just fine, and the fact that I appear to be a happy person should add to my general appeal.

Last, but in no way least, I review the appearance and texture of my hair. I lean slightly forward and turn my head to one side so my locks fall freely around my shoulder, then I run my fingers along them in a raking motion. Even though I cannot feel pride, I do feel compelled to point out where I have achieved excellent results. It is after all one of my most basic drives, to pursue and attain the most positive outcome in every task that pertains myself or those who I have chosen to favor. It does not matter how many carbohydrates or lipids I ingest, or how many years I age, my physical appearance will remain the same. The level of quality my hair possesses is a wholly different story, though. I had to invest an inordinate amount of time and effort in order to achieve its current state. I am not implying that Allison Young had terrible hair, but there certainly was room for improvement, more so in order to achieve the look and feel it has nowadays. Long locks of flowing, wavy hair that fall below my shoulder blades. It is lustrous in appearance, smooth as silk to the touch, and its haphazard curls are sure to draw the attention of the human eye. Their brains are allured by complicated, seemingly chaotic patterns.

I am an average, fairly attractive seventeen year old female, and therein lies the problem. Many teenage humans are reasonably attractive at this age. After all, they are going through their prime reproductive phase. By being average, I have automatically forfeited any possible advantage. I am neither tall nor short, my skin is not too white or too dark, my breasts and hips are not full but also not lacking, most aspects of my appearance fall within the average range. Furthermore, as aesthetic preferences are entirely objective, there is no guarantee that even my best assets will be seen as attractive by others. Even so, I estimate the odds of a human finding me either attractive or unattractive being roughly equal, or as the popular adage says, it can go both ways. That is, unless I am dealing with John Connor, of course. He introduces a number of variables that upset the balance of my resulting numbers, putting me in a very disadvantageous position.

According to the statistical data I have gathered from my accumulated memories of this timeline, the likelihood of John being physically attracted to me is tenuous. He has displayed an obvious—and also quite mundane—inclination for females with varying shades of blonde hair, colorful eyes, and voluptuous bodies. Whereas I have brown hair, brown eyes, and a thin body. Everything I am is exactly what he does not want. John Connor being the panty thief is a theory too unlikely to be worthy of pursuit, for now. I plan to further analyze this theory, as I have not entirely ruled out the possibility that he is the panty thief. It still seems more likely than the next suspect in my list.

Tonight, I will pursue the third option, even if I do find it inconceivable that an outsider has had the opportunity to illicitly enter the house at his or her leisure. Underestimating this situation has so far been counterproductive, and now repeated pilfering has practically become part of my daily existence. This situation must stop, and I will see to it.

As I move to gather my clothes, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Judging by the sound and pace, I determine that it is John Connor, so I make no haste to put my clothes back on. His room is located beside the staircase, and given the amount of attention he usually pays to me, it is safe to assume he will not approach my room. What a catastrophic miscalculation this turns out to be. By the time I realize that his footsteps are in fact approaching my doorstep, I have barely covered my body with underwear.

"What are you doing?" John asks, the tension in his voice easily perceivable.

When I turn to look at him, I find his eyes fixed on mine. The muscles of his face and neck are strained, particularly around his lips and his jaw, clear signs of anger. My best course of immediate action is to quickly amend my error. While I put my clothes back on, I consider how to best answer his question. While I do prefer telling the truth, I must conceal certain facts in order to not alert him about my ongoing investigation, just in case he does happen to be the culprit. In the end, I opt for the most succinct response honesty allows.

"I was checking myself in the mirror." I answer in a purposefully level voice and with a purposefully endearing smile. His angry posture does falter for a moment, but predictably, this is not enough to gain his favor.

"What?" He says, his voice already becoming louder. I revise my answer, he is growing exasperated and I am the reason why.

While I do expand upon my previous reply, I make sure to only add other irrelevant details that reveal nothing of my current mission. "I was checking myself in the mirror to make sure that my body had not suffered any spontaneous changes in its proportions."

This latest version of my response is rewarded with a combination of a huff, a roll of the eyes, and the nearly inaudible muttering of a slightly insulting adjective directed at me. Since getting away with this much is as positive an outcome as I can expect when dealing with John Connor, I deem our exchange concluded and say nothing more. After forty six seconds of silence, he simply turns around and leaves.

As I listen to his retiring footsteps and the ensuing slam of his bedroom's door, I ponder over the fact that his eyes never wandered away from mine while he was here. Even though my body was quite exposed, he obviously never considered appraising it even a little. John Connor did not ogle my body while it was covered only by underwear, John Connor is not attracted to me. What does this mean to me? On one hand, I must consider that my unremarkable appearance makes me inconspicuous, which allows for a great degree of anonymity—a very desirable trait given my nature and that of my activities. However, the scope of influence of this trait also encompasses John Connor. Therefore, I must consider on the other hand just how preferable it would be to become more conspicuous to the general populace, and by extension, John. What improvements and setbacks would this adjustment entail?

For the time being, I put this particular conundrum off my mind, and leave its analysis for a future occasion. The person responsible for my missing underwear is still at large, and if this individual is in fact an outsider, there is a major breach in our security. This I cannot allow, the safety of John Connor is paramount.

It is an uneventful day. I barely see John, and if I did not know any better, it would seem that Sarah Connor has planned our chores so they never take place in the same room. By early evening I am already done with all my scheduled tasks for today—appointed by Sarah Connor or otherwise. I spend the remainder of the day standing in the living room, keeping a watchful eye on everything. Even though it is customary for John to assign some of his time to watching television, today he forgoes the activity entirely, thus missing the shows he enjoys. I am starting to consider the possibility that he has been avoiding me ever since our exchange in my bedroom. If this is true, his mood is worse than I initially assessed.

If John Connor has a bad disposition toward me, this will arise suspicions in his mother, and it will complicate my status quo enormously. Sarah Connor is always expecting the worst from me, and will take every opportunity she can to see if her suspicions have finally materialized. In order to ameliorate or even eliminate any future repercussions, I take a proactive approach. First, I insert a blank disk in the DVD recorder, and program the timer with the scheduled times for John's favorite shows. Then, I make sure that he has completed all his chores in a manner that satisfies his mother's standards. Lastly, I schedule a visit to the grocery store at my earliest convenience in order to restock his supply of preferred snacks. These actions should serve as adequate countermeasures for his bad mood, and may even improve his opinion of me. If John is happy, Sarah is happy, and I am left to my own devices. All in all a positive outcome, precisely the kind I prefer.

Once darkness has completely shrouded the city, and the only illumination available originates from street lamps, I go to my room and initiate preparations for my nightly patrol. I slip on black denim jeans, a black tank top, a black denim jacket, and I finish by replacing my casual boots for combat ones. Every piece of clothing must be as dark as possible in order to better blend with the shadows. Using more standard clothes during the day and then swapping them before nightly patrol is a practice I just recently introduced into my routine. Seventy one days after we moved into this house, John Connor pointed out to me that I was quickly becoming the most conspicuous entity in the neighborhood. The reason? The mere act of wearing dark clothes and long sleeves all day long throughout summer. Apparently, doing this in California makes you look like a freak, and freaks stand up like sore thumbs.

Now that I am dressed, I tuck my Glock-17 pistol between the hem of my jeans and my lower back, then place an extra clip of ammunition in the left pocket of my jacket. I am prepared for patrolling, but before actually leaving the house to roam the streets of the neighborhood, I must await until the transit of pedestrians and vehicles slackens. Therefore, I return downstairs and re-take my position by the window in the living room.

Twenty three minutes after midnight, the streets of our neighborhood have been vacated almost entirely. After activating the alarm system, I move to leave the house. With John and Sarah Connor having already retired to their respective bedrooms, minding the volume of my steps to avoid awaking them is a must. I stealthily traverse the porch, then the front yard, turn right on the sidewalk, and begin walking along it at a brisk pace. Tonight I must conclude my patrol as soon as possible, so even the route I have planned covers a smaller area than usual. Anticipating an appearance of the panty thief, I plan to return early and spend the remainder of the night hiding in the immediate vicinity of the house.

My patrols usually bring me near residences where dogs dwell. The reaction of the animals is proportional to my proximity. Once they have detected me, barking immediately ensues, angry and threatening. When I enter their visual range, a drastic transformation in their behavior occurs. The barking becomes whimpering, and shortly after that, follows a hasty retreat. Tonight though, as I walk past the house with the large black Rottweiler, I instantly perceive that something has changed. Even though the dog starts whimpering, no hasty retreat follows. In fact, the dog holds its ground and barks a warning occasionally. This brings me to an abrupt halt, and I turn to observe the animal, compelled to learn the reason for this change.

The front yard of the house is suddenly illuminated by two lamps located at both sides of the main door, and I realize what is the motivation behind the unusual behavior the dog is displaying. Its owner is present, and the animal feels compelled to fulfill the duty of protecting its master. This is unprecedented, all my memories of past patrols show that the human occupant of the house has always been absent, which suggests he works at night. A hypothesis that could satisfactorily explain why a human has never been present before. However, it does not explain why the dog is motivated enough to hold its ground against me.

A sound similar to grating metal reaches my ears, but the echo that accompanies it makes it difficult to pinpoint the source. The best approximation I have, is that it generated from the side of the house, possibly within the narrow corridor the dog occupies. Those lights in the front make difficult the identification of anything more than silhouettes in the darkness of the corridor, but I do not desist. Soon enough a human figure emerges from the house, and for some reason this immediately and completely silences the dog . In several occasions, I have observed human-dog interactions, and the animals usually respond to voiced or tactile commands. It is peculiar to see the effect the mere presence of this human has on the dog. Perhaps he is an expert trainer with a completely innovative method. Then, I hear a dull thud followed by a shrill animal cry, and the mysterious behavior of the dog is not a mystery anymore.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Max? Are you scared of a little girl?" A male voice shouts at the dog, causing it to sink even further into the shadows.

I have been seen. This can mean trouble. The sooner I put considerable distance between this human and myself, the better. Given the violent nature he exhibits, and how my presence has now been linked to the failed duties of his dog, some manner of confrontation might occur. An outcome I must avoid. There is no reason for me to remain here anyway, since my observations have concluded, so I turn away from the house and begin walking across the street. It is simple to infer why the dog was so compelled to confront something that frightens it as I do. The threat posed by its master is far more clear and present than the threat posed by my alien nature. I am scary simply because I exist beyond the scope of its comprehension, whereas its master has probably been inflicting physical and psychological abuse upon it for some time. This human behavior is quite aberrant. There is no logic in acquiring an animal that is to serve as a pet and companion, and then proceed to mistreat it.

As I reach the other side of the street, I immediately move toward the more shadowy areas. They are perfect for concealment, and will no doubt thwart any intent the human might have had of pursuing me.

"Hey!"

Or not. As I keep walking, I run a quick comparison of the voice with my memories, and it does indeed match the voice from the human at the large black Rottweiler's house. Furthermore, the sound of its footsteps certainly seems to be approaching my general position. Derek Reese would say that shit just got serious, and indeed it has. This human seems intent on confronting me about a situation of which I am clearly blameless. Unless of course he assumes I have been periodically visiting his dog in order to terrorize it. Of course, that is a perfectly valid hypothesis. Humans do seem to believe that others do as they do, self-centered creatures that they are.

My strategy of moving away to avoid confrontation is sound, so I quicken my step and ignore the human. That is, until the human's hollering makes it clear that my strategy is quite less effective than I had first estimated.

"Hey, bitch, don't ignore me! Stop walking!" He shouts from behind me, his voice and footsteps quickly becoming louder.

As I turn around to face him, the speed of his footsteps nearly doubles, and I am unprepared for what follows. The strength of his arm, backed up by considerable body-weight is suddenly transmitted to me through the palm of his hand upon my chest. Then… Then, nothing happens, and that is exactly how unprepared I was. This is becoming quite the predicament, and the expression on the human's face is testament to it. Acting the way he is—as a brutish and primitive ape—he probably expected me to land on my ass, and then he could tower above my prone body in order to deliver his self-righteous retribution upon me. At the very least he expected me to stumble a few steps backward, not to simply stand there, with my seemingly less than a hundred pound body putting a total and abrupt halt to his more than two hundred pounds.

Derek Reese would say the shit has hit the fan. By logical assumption, excrement now litters a vast area, and it has become a veritable shit-storm—another of Derek Reese's expressions. Predictably enough, in the face of impossibility, the human turns to insults as he questions my ability to withstand his so obviously self-claimed prowess. Still, I analyze his arms a second time just to be sure that his biceps are in fact not made of steel. As part of his interrogation, he keeps trying to shove me, but I am past any pretense of being human, so I do not budge. This only intensifies his outrage.

Words will not work at this point, there is no reasoning with him. Termination, then—but that would sooner or later bring the authorities to the neighborhood and compromise our location. Perhaps I could abduct him and use psychotropic drugs to erase his memories. As I contemplate what my course of action should be, the decision is made for me. The human pulls a cellphone from the pocket in his shorts as he shouts at me.

"You must be drugged, that's the only explanation! I'm calling the cops on you, you fucking junkie!"

A threat I cannot stand idly and let pass. There is only one other method of memory erasure I know, and it has a high probability of resulting in permanent brain damage. Well, he does not have much of a brain anyway. Before he can dial any number, I quickly reach out and slam my open palm against the side of his head. During the two seconds he manages to stand after the hit, the irises in his eyes turn upward until they are lost behind open eyelids, and his mouth produces an unintelligible sound. Then, he collapses to the ground into a heap. Time to clean up after myself. Being tidy is another of my strong points. The odds seem to be in my favor, because I look around to see if there have been any witnesses, and find none. Given what I know, this person clearly makes a ruckus such as this quite often and the neighbors have become desensitized. They probably assumed he was yelling at his dog.

After carefully closing his eyes, I remove the cellphone from his hand and pocket it in my jacket, meanwhile a plan begins to take shape in my mind. I squat beside him and position his body to be carried across my shoulders. Lifting this much weight is not laborious for me, so I rise carrying the body on my back and begin walking in a single motion. Seeing how this whole ordeal has nearly consumed my allotted patrol time, I trot back to his house, making my best effort to prevent his head from bobbing too much. I do not intend to aggravate the concussion I just gave him.

Upon arriving at his house, I find the front door open, so I do not slow down before entering the building. Once inside, I commence reconnaissance without delay, and search for the main bathroom and any other human inhabitants I may have failed to initially notice. There appears to be no one else in the house, so upon locating the bathroom, I walk inside and carefully drop the human on the tiled floor. Then, I open the shower faucet and let the water run freely, and arrange his body in a way that seems consistent with the aftermath of an accidental fall. I pull the cellphone from the right pocket of my jacket, and dial the emergency number. A young sounding female voice replies almost immediately, and the acting begins. Taking on the voice of my unsuccessful assailant and the inflection of a disoriented person, I explain in succinct detail the accident I just had in the bathroom, and how I seem to be coming in and out of consciousness. I prolong the drama just enough to provide the telephone attendant with accurate directions to this address, and then simply let the device fall to the floor, leaving the line open. Just in case, before departing, I carefully clean any surfaces my hands might have come in contact with. Being thorough keeps my processes clear of the clutter of speculation, which I practically consider junk inside my mind. Going in circles about things that could have been or might come to be is nothing but wasted resources.

As I walk toward the main door, ready to leave the house after erasing all evidence of my presence, the most irrelevant thought crosses my mind. The dog. That simple thought is so incongruous, I cannot help but assume something has gone awry inside my mind. I stop walking, and without consideration for when the paramedics might arrive, begin scouring my mind. Once again, I find nothing, my mind is working perfectly. Why the dog, then? What significance can the dog have in the small or large scheme of things? None, that is the only answer I can come up with. This thought has no meaning, and I easily could… no, _should_ discard it, since I can already hear the sirens that herald the impending arrival of the ambulance. However, I find myself unwilling to do so. Thus, I do the only thing I can do.

In the kitchen, I easily identify the door that leads to the corridor beside the house, and soon enough—after the required grating of metal against concrete—I find myself facing the large black Rottweiler. Unsurprisingly, the animal is curled into a tight ball, whimpering while occasionally throwing furtive glances in my direction. Unfortunately for the beast, I have no time for manners or kindness. I swiftly reach for the animal's neck with both hands, and free it from the collar holding a name-tag that reads 'Max'. The metal door that leads to the front yard poses no more resistance to the force of my arm than a curtain made of cloth, and so the way to freedom is opened. Dogs are creatures of habit, though. Instinctually loyal—often to the point of self-sacrifice—and they form strong bonds to their human master, regardless of how they are treated. Like me. Would I leave if John mistreated me so?

The sirens are closer now, close enough that the window of opportunity for my escape has become precariously narrow. If the dog requires further persuasion in order to embrace his emancipation, I shall oblige. Increasing the light output of my eyes until the tiny corridor is engulfed in blue light does the trick, and after a single yelp, the beast is running away as if some form of mythical creature from biblical lore is on its heels. It might as well be. Immediately after the dog, I too take my leave, and run away from the house as quickly as my feet can carry me. Which is a lot. I certainly would not risk running at this speed if it were daytime, or the urgency of the situation did not call for it.

My legs carry me back to the Connor household in seven seconds flat. A new world record for the distance I just traversed. Alas, the streets are not an officially sanctioned track and having a hydraulically actuated metal endoskeleton is most certainly against regulations.

Around the front and back yards of the house are trees and bushy plants that allow for several vantage points from which I can survey the building and its surroundings. I remain concealed in one spot for an arbitrarily designated number of minutes, then move to another. My plan is to do this throughout the night, and possibly future nights until the identity of the panty burglar is revealed to me. However, my plan quickly becomes obsolete. During my third surveillance circuit around the house, I notice a window in the second story that becomes illuminated. Without delay, I stealthily move toward the area below the source, and find out that just as I half expected, it is the light in my room that has been turned on. The only other possibility being John Connor's room, which is contiguous to mine.

I quickly run around the corner of the house and open the front door as silently as haste allows. In order to move stealthily once inside, I remove my boots and walk with my center of mass shifted toward the lower front. Furthermore, I adjust my walking style to reduce the area of my feet that makes contact with the floor. Hunched like this, I tiptoe up the stairs, and even use my hands for additional support when required. These creaky wooden steps constitute a rather perilous terrain in terms of a stealthy approach. When I reach the second story, I find that instead of my room, the one beside it is now illuminated.

The door to the room is slightly ajar, letting out through the opening a light faint enough that I deem the desk lamp as its only possible source. I stand beside the door, and peek inside through the available space. There is John Connor on his bed, I can see his face and he appears to be agitated. My mind produces dozens of hypothesis in the next second, but I do not follow through any of them, my information is too inconclusive at the moment. So, I weigh the benefits of actively affecting my surroundings in order to improve the retrieval of information against the risk of being discovered. In the end, I decide to marginally increase the opening of the door.

I am unprepared for what is revealed to me. My panties, a pair he positively stole just minutes ago from my room, are grasped in John Connor's left hand, while his right hand is grasping at something entirely different. As his left fist clenches possessively around the piece of cloth at random intervals, he crumples and runs his thumb along it as if trying to wear it down. My clothes should not be subject to this treatment! Intolerable! I fully open the door and step inside the room.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I enter the room and without delay step beside the bed. John Connor turns to look at me, his eyes wide open, his mouth emitting a strangely choked gasp. He fumbles with the piece of clothing in his hand, fumbles with his genitals, and fumbles with the sheets to cover his half-nude body. It is obvious I have surprised him, considering how clumsy the movement of his upper extremities has become.

While I stand there, John Connor displays other reactions, including sporadic nervous body movements and shifting eyes that entirely avoid looking in my direction. However, there are other more relevant responses that under different circumstances I would have overlooked. His silence and refusal to confront me even after I barged uninvited into his room. There is only one conclusion I can draw from this. Being caught while committing an act that could easily be perceived as illicit and morally deviant, has made him feel guilt and shame. He is vulnerable right now, and I am bound to exploit this weakness by the imperatives of my programming, by my own need to pursue knowledge.

"You took my panties. Return them." I say, carefully utilizing a calm, yet authoritative tone.

The many family interactions I have witnessed in the Connor household indicate that John will not respond positively if I fail to employ the adequate tone of voice. Extremes are to be avoided, always exercising self-control, a method that Sarah Connor would find greatly beneficial were she to employ it. Still, just by being myself, I am facing adverse odds of success, as I am far from being an authority figure in relation to John Connor. Furthermore, after our confrontation the day before, I may have to consider that he does not regard me even as a friendly figure. All these negative factors should have deterred me from pursuing this endeavor beyond discovering the culprit behind my missing panties and applying the appropriate countermeasures, but today I have an advantage. This situation should have made John more receptive than usual, even if the words come from me.

Ninety four seconds pass in absolute silence. John does not bother to reply or even look at me, he obviously is reluctant to accept the charge of being an underwear thief. There is no giving me the silent treatment, he should know better. I will not relent to what humans call an uncomfortable silence any sooner than he, and neither will wasted time or lack of sleep stop me. My patience is boundless and I do not require rest, whereas he is a mere human. I stare at him, unblinking and unwavering.

When two hundred and seventy seven seconds have elapsed, I begin to doubt my success, but then he begins fidgeting. I am still staring squarely at him when his eyes gaze furtively in my direction. Surely he now understands the hopelessness of his efforts. Suddenly, his hand moves toward me in a swift and direct motion, volunteering my crumpled panties inside his fist. I take the offering, and he visibly relaxes, unaware of just how far this situation is from over. A questioning is in order, the mystery of my stolen panties will be unraveled tonight.

"Did you smell them?" I ask, careful to keep my tone demanding but not overly so.

While he nods a minuscule amount, the skin tone of his face shifts perceivably, blood flow converging mainly in the middle region of his cheeks. His body has become tense once more, his eyes staring in the opposite direction of my current position.

"Did you lick them?"

He nods again, his face becoming even more flushed with blood.

"Did you masturbate with them?"

Another nod, blush deepening.

"Did my panties feel good?"

One more nod, his whole face is now exhibiting a deep shade of the color red. Good, John Connor should be feeling appropriately ashamed and contrite about his recent actions. I find this situation interesting and enlightening. Despite the fact that he never has demonstrated attraction toward me, he still deems me and my clothing sensual in a feminine way. At least enough to employ the latter as inspirational material when satisfying his urges. It is strange how humans can single mindedly pursue a goal, and upon failing to attain it, will take anything as a substitute. What then was the point of their feverish pursuit, when this demeans the entire premise?

The interrogation is not over, but for now, I allow him a respite. "Knowledge about this situation will remain between us, as it will not do for the resistance to learn about the perversions that inhabit the mind of its leader. It would humanize you, make you common, and lower you to the level of an ordinary man."

I have barely finished speaking, when he is suddenly upon me, pouncing from the bed in one rapid motion, paying no heed to his nakedness below the waist. Sarah Connor would have, as humans say, a field day re-educating him about the rules of indecent exposure. Speaking of her, Sarah has done a remarkable job at training her son. Both his hands land squarely on my shoulders, backed up by his full body mass. Even when reacting by mere instinct, John Connor manages to harness the knowledge about human physiology that has been passed down to him. Although, he did overlook one minor factor, I am not human.

Deflecting the force of his attack, or even withstanding it would be a simple matter to me, but I do not. I allow him to bring me down to the floor and pin me under his body. The indignation I detect in his voice compelling me to learn more about the events currently unfolding.

"Perversions?" He mutters through clenched teeth. "Like it's my fault this is happening!"

Something so unexpected begins to happen, that I have trouble processing it. It could be said that I am baffled. John's hands sneak under my top and pull it up roughly, and then do the same with my brassiere, thus leaving my breasts completely exposed. Then, nothing else happens. He remains on top of me, unmoving, simply staring at my body, but I can see a change occurring in his eyes. Predictably enough, he begins speaking again, his voice louder. Thankfully, this house has well-built walls that are thick and properly insulated, making them quite soundproof.

"This is all your fault! Walking around the house all day, flaunting this indecent body!"

Barely done speaking, both his hands latch onto my breasts, and I can sense squeezing, a thumb caressing the protruding nub on each one. John Connor promptly begins breathing laboriously while kneading my breasts without pause. The sensorial feedback my brain receives is very interesting, mainly because this is my first time engaging in such an activity. One problem arises from it, though. I do not know how to react. A vast amount of knowledge that can be applied in situations such as this one is indeed readily available to me, but most of it was programmed into my mind upon being built, as a means to facilitate infiltration. Somehow, I expect John not to have a positive reaction about me utilizing infiltration procedures on him, so I do not modify my normal behavior.

"This delicious, amazing body…" He suddenly says between labored breaths. Then, he dips his head between my breasts, both hands still holding and fondling them while he inhales deeply against my cleavage.

I know these signs, he is aroused. Apparently my physical appearance is somehow at fault for this, which is of course a preposterous premise. Different humans find different traits attractive, it is within each individual's brain, so if anyone is at fault it would be him. As the saying correctly points out, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Which of course is irrelevant in the face of the major underlying revelation this uncovers. John Connor finds me sexually desirable.

Even though I regard the consequences this situation might bring highly desirable, it is still too soon to accurately estimate an outcome. There is a particular conundrum that must be resolved in order to make a correct assessment. Does John Connor desire me for reasons intrinsic to my physical appearance? Or, having repeatedly failed to secure the alternatives of his preference, is he simply falling back to the rather common human measure of settling for less. I am more inclined to think it is the latter option, which is absolutely unfavorable for me, but at this point I cannot be certain. Further research is in order.

While I have been pondering the situation and its ramifications, John Connor has wasted no time to make further progress. The ministrations of his hands have become rougher, sending negative feedback into my mind, and even worse, suggesting that he is in fact settling for less with me. Surrendering reason to instinct is a sign of simply wanting to satisfy the urges of his body. He is not interested on who assists him in reaching that end, he simply desires to do so. Anyone would do right now.

This situation is wholly erroneous, events should have never developed along this path. As Derek Reese would say, this is all wrong, things have gone down the drain. He is not supposed to think of me as less, or as common. If this pattern continues, I will never be able to acquire a position of trust beside him, I will never be able to adequately protect him, advise him, or tend to his needs. My thought process is slowly deteriorating into chaos, and I am unable to discern what my appropriate reaction should be. If I completely stop John Connor, there is the risk of anger directed at myself, and long-lasting resentment will be forthcoming in the near future. If I do not stop him and allow him to do as he pleases, there is a risk that his opinion of me will worsen. I will become the whore who does anyone, or so the other females at school seem to think when in similar situations. Although I find the reaction to border on the extreme, it does possess logical merit when considered within the context of adolescent behavior.

Since my two most obvious alternatives carry evident risks of negative consequences, after a moment's deliberation, I opt for a third one. What if I establish a diplomatic exchange with John Connor, guide his hands, channel his instincts? I take hold of his shoulder and gently, but firmly move his body away from mine.

"John, you are being too rough." I state in a calm voice.

Surprise seems to be the predominant emotion in his facial expression, and then the unexpected happens yet again.

"Oh, Cameron, I'm sorry, it's just…" As he stops talking, I take notice of his face growing larger within my field of view, and then his lips press against mine.

I do not react, still unsure of how to, but John Connor does not appear discouraged by this—by my inaction. The flesh of his mouth is soft and the skin is smooth and warm. This and more information goes through my mind as he kisses and suckles first my lower lip, and then the upper one. Then, he turns his head sideways and the area of contact between our lips shifts, deepening the kiss. That is when he gives me the first definitive clue as to how I should behave. When his tongue runs along my lips for a second time, I acknowledge what I think to be a request. Parting my lips to allow his moist and soft tongue inside my oral cavity, thus demonstrating my compliance, should be an adequate enough response to him resuming his tender ministrations.

As the kissing progresses, I notice that his hands begin to explore my body once more. With movements that still indicate nervousness and anxiety, John Connor caresses my breasts, my waist, my thighs. Even so, he remains somewhat controlled, complying to my request for gentler caressing. Perhaps this means he cares about me beyond my initial assessment, I cannot tell yet, but his will to compromise does seem to agree with such a hypothesis. Also, I begin to notice patterns in the motions of his mouth. At certain points, I choose to counter the advance of his lips by applying pressure against them with my own. A rhythm emerges from this, and the surge it produces in John's enthusiasm is immediately evident.

"Oh, Cameron." He whispers against my lips between kisses.

His breath is warm and coming in short gasps. There are sweat droplets forming in his forehead, cheeks, near his neck. Something is happening, something has pushed his arousal beyond some arbitrary limit inside his mind and I have missed the warnings entirely, if there even were any. Both his hands quickly unravel this mystery as they move down along my abdominal area and beyond. They unbutton my jeans, lower the zipper, one of them runs across my pubic bone, caresses the cloth of the panties with its fingertips, and finally it slides underneath them. It would appear I am about to go up to third base in my first time. Is this appropriate? Somehow, the more accommodating behavior John Connor is now displaying suggests that he will not regard me as an easy woman if I allow him to continue. But he does not continue.

Suddenly, his face moves directly in front of my eyes, and he simply stares at my face with a rigid expression. It is a familiar facial expression, yet the small variations and aspects belonging to other expressions make definite identification impossible. This is the face he makes when he is serious about some endeavor, but it could also be what he calls his game face, and it is also faintly reminiscent of what he will call his General face in the future. If nothing else, I can at least be certain that his demeanor has shifted toward the more severe range of his emotional spectrum. Why was this brought by the impending contact of his hand with my private place, I cannot tell, it certainly is a situation that can be categorized under perplexing.

The hand that rests in my nether area is promptly removed, but John Connor remains on top of me, moving the other hand to cover his face. Then he rubs his face, runs his fingers along his hair several times, and then proceeds to rub the back of his head. There is a decision he is having difficulty coming to terms with. Given our current circumstances, I cannot help but relate this eventuality with myself. Perhaps he regrets reaching this level of intimacy with me. Maybe because I was wrong and he is not attracted to me, or maybe he has qualms about me being an artificial being. Are these moral qualms? Psychological qualms? Romantic qualms? Hundreds of hypotheses flood my mind, confounding my reasoning. I cannot work with so many unknown factors, I cannot work with redundancy that creates loops in logical thought and leads nowhere, I cannot work with empty speculation that leads nowhere, I cannot…

"Cameron, I…" John's voice reaches my ears and stops my mind from derailing.

"Yes, John?" I reply, calmly.

"I…" He hesitates once again, and since the answer to all my questions may very well rest in his next words, I decide to encourage him further.

"You can tell me everything, John." I state, purposefully calm and confident as I reach with my hand to touch his cheek.

John closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He holds his breath for a moment, and then exhales, opening his eyes again to look directly into mine. "I'm sorry, Cameron… About… well about everything, and…"

Once again he hesitates, his gaze averted from mine and wandering about the room.

I reiterate my previous statement and complement it with a tilt of my head. "You can tell me everything, John." I reinforce my words even further by running a thumb along his cheek and offering a comforting smile while doing so.

For just a moment, he looks into my eyes again. "I love you, Cameron."

_WHAT?_

…

_WHAT?_

All my thought processes nearly come to a full stop, my mind becomes essentially frozen, and so does my body. Unless I will it to happen, I am unable to manifest certain reactions as humans automatically do, so in situations where my body stops receiving commands from my mind, its response is to simply lock into the position it last held. This is perhaps why John smiles and leans down to kiss my lips. In his perception, I have remained smiling candidly through his declaration, which he probably sees as a sign of acquiescence. And although I do acquiesce, there were questions I had to ask before proceeding any further. All precepts related to John Connor's aesthetic and romantic preferences have been obliterated. Logic is currently being defied. I require answers, the paradigm must be reinstated. What brought this declaration of romantic feelings toward me? What about the women, my diametrical opposites, that he has always chosen to be his companions? What is the meaning of his attitude toward me, of the treatment he has directed toward my person in the past?

Chaos. So much chaos in my mind that I am practically unable to remain collected. Time is of the essence, though. While I have wasted copious amounts of it pondering about things I cannot possibly answer on my own, John Connor has done no such thing. His lips have nearly reached mine and I must respond, lest he misinterprets my lack of action for apathy.

Somehow, I manage to regain full control over my body in time, and we kiss again, more urgently than before. Rather, his own urgency is reflected by my strategy of reacting to him, but the result remains the same. Our lips and tongues dance in what can easily qualify as a very passionate kiss. The caressing is resumed and I can sense his hands all over my body, moving from one area to another as if trying to assimilate the sensation of every portion of skin in one session. There is the unmistakable need of arousal in the motions of his hands, but at the same time his touch has become steadier, more certain and more dedicated. Perhaps I could go as far as to assume his touch now intends to service me, and not just his self.

John stops for a moment and looks directly into my eyes while caressing the side of my face. "You have no idea how much I've longed for this."

He is correct, I have no idea, as he never has displayed a keen interest in my person, physical or otherwise. Since I want to know, or given my nature it could be said that I need to know, I tell him exactly that. At first, he laughs for a moment. It is the kind of laughter he emits when I have misunderstood the meaning of some human expression that anyone else but me finds obvious. When he is done laughing, he explains about the contradictory behavior of choosing the type of woman that is nearly opposite to me in appearance, and then proceeding to act as he has just now.

"What better way to throw a machine off my scent, than to blatantly choose the opposite of what I wanted." John concludes his explanation and then laughs again.

That is it, then? It all had been a ruse, a distraction so that I would never assume he was interested in me. Now that I have learned the truth, I can see the logic behind it. He is correct, under strict logic it was easy to reach an erroneous conclusion, but human logic is quite more surreal. Why did he go to such lengths, though?

"Well," he begins, but immediately hesitates. "Well, you know, you are a machine. Think about who I am, what I am meant to do. Think about how strange it is, of course my life has always been anything but normal, but still…" Then he looks away, and his facial muscles become tense, making his features appear hardened. Nevertheless, it lasts just a moment, and then he laughs. A strange laugh, sad and mocking that he seems to be directing nowhere in particular. "Then you also have to consider my mom. Imagine, her son in love with the very things that have been haunting her for a lifetime and trying to murder her… Yeah, that can't end well."

Still ignorant as to how to react to all these unprecedented occurrences, I simply do what I always do in situations like these, when he opens up and invests his time and focus into helping me improve.

"Thank you for explaining." I tell him while smiling. This seems to be enough, although I am not entirely certain why. Still, since he smiles in response, I can only assume that we have reached a positive outcome.

However, he is not done yet. "You have no idea how much I've struggled. Pushing you away while wanting you beside me at the same time. While wanting to actually act nice around you… wanting to touch you. Touch these exquisite, perfect breasts…"

The entire time he speaks, I observe his face for any signs of deception. I forego the pretense of humanity and stop blinking altogether in order to study the movements of his every facial muscle and his eyes. There is not a single sign to be found that indicates dishonesty. Not while he speaks, not when he smiles yet again while looking squarely into my eyes, and not while his hand caresses my breast and his lips touch upon it.

John Connor does desire my company and my body. How strange and unanticipated. Even so, every moment we continue to spend in this room serves to further prove that such is the case, leaving me with no doubt that John considers my body agreeable and even… appetizing. Perhaps this is the activity I have overheard some of the other teenagers refer to as, eating someone out. John Connor does seem to be attempting to fit as much of my flesh as possible into his mouth.

I still do not know how to react. Should I react as I was programmed to? What if he finds the ruse disagreeable and that brings a negative outcome to our current exchange? Still, he will surely find my inaction disagreeable too. However, other than at the time of performing osculation, there has been no other indicator as to how I should react to his ministrations. While we kissed, there were subtle variations in the pattern of his movements that allowed me not only to imitate, but to engage in a response of my own. In the end, it was a simple mathematical supposition. That does not apply to caressing, though, I cannot respond with parts of my body that are not mobile.

While I ponder about how to appropriately proceed with the caressing issue, John Connor once again works his way down to my panties. Although, this time he appears to have done away with any reservations he previously held, as indicated by his hands now working at swiftly removing both my jeans and underwear.

"Wow, Cameron, do you umm… do you like, trim and groom this somehow?" He questions hesitantly while running the fingers of his right hand along the tuft of hair down there. "It's, uh…" He swallows before being able to continue. "It's very soft, and neat…"

On each occasion he is unable to utter a whole sentence without interruption, I notice that he has trouble swallowing. The possibility of him becoming gradually dehydrated throughout our stay in his room is feasible, after all it is quite a warm night, and he has been subject to significant stress. For a moment I do consider warning him, but I quickly dismiss the idea. One of the magazines aimed at young females that I read mentioned this. If I were to interrupt him to dispense my advice regarding dehydration, it would ruin the mood, which basically would cause our current situation to devolve into a series of negative outcomes. He would discontinue his romantic ministrations, and the possibility of a reprisal in the near future would be lowered nearly to zero. An outcome that must be avoided at all costs, as I must score as many points as possible with John right now, when I have the opportunity.

Although I do not fully grasp this concept, my information sources indicate that its importance cannot be overstated, so I will abide. I do understand the concept of increasing a numeric score, and if my current deeds are netting me points, my course of action is clear. It is uncertain how many points are gained or on what basis, or even the relative value of each point, but if this is positively affecting John's opinion of me, any amount is meaningful.

In the end, I limit myself to merely answer his inquiry. "No, it grows in such a pattern."

"Wow, that's, um… pretty awesome…" The volume of his voice lowers as he speaks, until it practically fades when he is done talking.

It is worth of notice that regardless of the interlude we just went through, John Connor's lust has not been overly diminished. The volume of his voice is not the only thing that goes down. I do not actually see this happening, but I can sense where his breath touches with the utmost precision. First my abdomen, the intermittently emitted warm air traces a line along the middle, and then it stops for several seconds just below my navel. Is he perhaps admiring the craftsmanship of my bellybutton? Undoubtedly he must be. It is after all a work of art, and if he harbored any doubts as to the accuracy of my manufacture, they have been utterly dispelled. Well, I have to concede that perhaps he merely enjoys navels, as one of the magazines stated.

After that, he moves even lower. I can feel his warm breath down there. The hair increments the level of sensation, but the mere feeling of a direct air current in my private place constitutes an experience unlike any other. Nothing compares, clothing, water, my own hand. It is quite exceptional, but John allows me no time to assimilate and catalogue all the feedback my mind is receiving. Suddenly, his lips make direct contact with the skin, and barely have I begun adjusting to the sensation of being kissed in such an unlikely place, when he begins using his tongue.

To say that the sensation is utterly different from my own fingers would be an understatement. Even when he uses his fingers. The amount and nature of the information my mind is being flooded with is extraordinary. When John nudges my legs apart, I do not consider any other reaction but to willingly comply. With my mind so focused on analyzing all this data, I barely notice the moist and warm intrusion. Rather, it is not that I barely notice, but more that I only take note of the occurrence, and then place the analysis of all the feedback it generates at the end of the queue. I am already buried in new data, attempting to deal with anymore could have unforeseen consequences. Not even my Skynet programming provides a guideline on how to deal with the different kinds and quantities of this information.

One thing does remain clear in my mind. At this point in the intimate exchange, my inaction could carry catastrophic consequences. Since I still do not know how to react adequately, I settle for closely monitoring John Connor. I prop myself on my elbows and look down at him. Well, he certainly appears to be unconcerned about anything but what lies between my thighs. Good, as long as his instincts continue to hold his rational mind at bay, he will not notice my lack of visible response to his ministrations.

Some minutes afterward, John moves away from my genital area, and without a word props his self between my legs. Perhaps I should stop him, as coitus now seems more imminent than ever. The magazines warn about engaging in sexual intercourse during the first date, at risk of afterward being considered a woman who puts out—a term that would imply that not only am I readily available for the practice of sex, but also that I am promiscuous. Qualities I most certainly do not possess. Although, I must admit that my experience has been rather unconventional in comparison to those in the magazines. There never was a date to begin with, and I am not even human. Besides, the magazines also mentioned that I could apply my own judgment as long as it was done while sober, level-headed, and well informed. Since I am technically a computer, none of those conditions ever actually stop applying to me, and I have judged John Connor as an appropriate candidate to claim my pseudo maidenhood. Ergo, I do not stop him.

When he fails the third attempt at physically joining with me, it becomes obvious that he has no idea what he is doing, and that the thought process that led to my decision of not stopping him—and even the decision itself, have been rendered futile. This is my opportunity to avert consummating the act and avoid any consequences I might have overlooked. There are so many ramifications to this one decision, that I cannot accurately calculate all of them, and if there is something I am adamant against, that would be baseless speculation. However, as the saying goes, I am a girl who sticks to her guns, so I do not back away.

"Allow me to guide you." I say as I reach down to take John in my hand.

"No, Cameron, wait!" He protests, and it soon becomes apparent why. Barely has my hand made contact with him, and it is all over.

John emits some unintelligible grunt, and then slowly crawls away from me. I do not pay much attention to him, as my mind is now occupied on something far more interesting. Using my index and middle fingers I scoop some of the alien substance that fell on my abdomen, and then proceed to test its texture. As I rub it with my thumb, all of its secrets are revealed to me. How interesting to actually hold in my fingers and touch what basically constitutes half a human life. The flavor is also very different to any other substance I have ever tasted.

"Is that all this meant to you? Some kind of test?" John's words force my pondering to a halt, and to turn my focus toward him right away.

When I look at his face, I once again find the clear signs of anger, and what some humans refer to as sulking. Quite obviously my actions, or in this case inactions are once again to blame. I consider my options for a second before answering, and choose to be as honest as the sparing of his feelings allows.

"No." Is my succinct, concise and honest response. Well, at least half honest.

He lets out a laugh that I cannot mistake for anything but derisive. "Oh really? Hard to believe when you don't reply to my love declaration, then don't show any sign of liking what I was doing, even though I freaking ate you out! Even worse, you barely showed any reaction whatsoever all along and then, when I flunk the whole thing, you just go ahead and run tests on my sperm."

Oh, so he actually noticed. Everything. The only possibility I have of avoiding any further damage is to direct the conversation toward more equal ground.

"That is not fair, John. You know I cannot feel as humans do, therefore I cannot react in the same ways." I explain calmly.

John Connor crosses his arms. "Is that so? How come I've seen you behaving normally around people and even flirting with them at times, huh?"

I look squarely at his eyes and hold his gaze. "Those are pre-programmed behavioral patterns that are part of my infiltration procedures. I never expected you to want something like that. Should I give you my amorous prostitute glance, too?"

"What? No! I mean… No!" John replies while waving both his hands in front of him.

Why is he taken aback by my response when he has just requested that I behave with him as I have done with others? Just how fickle can humans be? This constantly changing nature of humans is something I will never fully grasp. Just as he did before, getting excited and aroused, and then becoming depressed and angry all on his own. Self-centered and capricious. Humans are such unnecessarily complicated creatures.

"You know what," John continues. "Forget about that. Okay? Just respond to my declaration. Do you feel something for me in return? Can you even feel anything?"

This is it. The question has been asked within a context that leaves no margin for misinterpretation. At times I actually did misinterpret the question, then at other times I simply pretended not to understand. But now, the situation has driven me into a corner. What can I reply? What should I reply?

_John, do you even fully comprehend how your own brain works? What is love? Caring for someone above most anything else? Worrying about their wellbeing, and sometimes considering them above nearly every other thing or person, even ourselves? Having the will to sacrifice yourself for that person, the one you love? Being their partner when a situation that cannot be handled by a single individual arises? Providing support, being a confidant, an advisor? Being a lover, demanding, equal, complacent, as required?_

_Most of those things I already do, I already have chosen to be, and am willing to become if the need arises. It is within my capabilities._

_The problem is that humans, arrogant creatures that they are, believe love to be more than that. What then? Is love a specific combination of chemical precursors that trigger within your brain the responses you prefer to call sensations and feelings? It is worth mentioning that only the most advanced brains work in such fashion, and given that humans are the apex of intellectual evolution on this planet, it mostly applies to just you. How interesting that this description fits exclusively humans, how coincidentally self-serving._

_If this is love, then I cannot feel anything toward you. And I will never be able to._

_However, do you perceive the great fault in the human brain and its feelings, John? The human brain is not a solid and unchangeable entity. It is within the very nature of your physiology to be transient, fickle. Entering a romantic relationship with a human being entails surrendering most of your outcomes to sheer luck. Very often will a mind change along the years, and even love can be lost in the tide of time. This is neither good nor bad, it simply is. You cannot fight what you are any more than I can._

_In conclusion. Would you understand the difference between us, between our very natures, and how the advantages and disadvantages each of us possesses can balance each other? While your love is spontaneous, mine is calculated, it has been deliberately born from choice. Therefore, my opinion of you can never change unless I take a conscious decision to do so. In the other hand, your opinion of me might change as the years pass. This compromise would be the very foundation of our relationship. And, is that not another of the most relevant aspects of love? Compromise._

_Tell me, John, would you comprehend all this if I were to explain it to you? I am almost certain you would not. Right now you are not prepared, but someday you will be, and I intend to be there when that day arrives. How then must I reply to your query? Perhaps with something unexpected, something that reflects your own spontaneous and capricious nature._

I crawl closer to him. "Not the same way you do, John."

He looks away and scoffs. "I'll take that as a no, then."

When he finishes speaking, he begins to stand up, but I stop him by quickly taking hold of his arm. If I allow John Connor to terminate our exchange in its current state, all the progress I have made will not only be negated, but maybe even affect my status quo negatively.

Even though he is not actively resisting me, his body remains turned away from me, so I take hold of both his shoulders with my hands and force him to face me.

"Look into my eyes, John." I demand while I proceed to forcefully straddle his legs. "I am here because I want to. What happened just now? I wanted that too. You know analyzing things is part of my nature, you can't blame me being myself. Understand this, however, I want this—you and me. Right now you will not understand my motivations, but that is no reason to stop, is it? Why can't we, as humans often do, enjoy the moment and leave the rest for another time?

"Just now, I learned how to kiss you. I already knew how, but just now I learned how to kiss John Connor. It is a kiss that belongs only to you."

I let go of his shoulders, and cautiously utilizing enough strength to allow for a gentle touch, I capture his face within my hands.

"I am intent on repeating the experience," I say looking at his eyes. "You may not believe me, so allow me to demonstrate."

Initially, John Connor actively refuses to reciprocate my kiss, but in small intervals he begins to yield. Soon enough he begins not only to reciprocate, but to enthusiastically initiate his own motions. It is then that I decide to pursue these relatively spontaneous behaviors of mine more aggressively, and I insert my tongue into his mouth. There is not a single moment of hesitation before he lets me in. I have reached a positive outcome. As humans say, any more than this will be icing on the cake. Icing improves the flavor of cake—I prefer my cake with icing.

I cease all kissing motions and push John away. "Would you make love to me now, John?" I inquire while looking directly at his slightly widened eyes that proceed to quickly widen more after my question.

A smile I cannot accurately identify appears on his lips. "Of course." He replies in a low voice.

And then…

The creaking sound of Sarah Connor's mattress reaches my ears, announcing that she has adopted a sitting position on it, which heralds an imminent visit to the bathroom and a customary visit to John's room in order to check up on him.

Bummer.


End file.
